


The Blood of Angry Men

by ArielleArcher



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 09:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16447142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArielleArcher/pseuds/ArielleArcher
Summary: The city is beset by new threats and Karen attempts to convince her vigilantes that heroism takes a village.AKA, the one in which Frank and Matt feel that there’s too many cooks in The Kitchen.(Bridges DDs2 & PunisherS1)





	The Blood of Angry Men

Sundown bathes the world in rose-gold.

Exhaling an appreciative sigh, Karen basks in the warm glow and watches as the lingering rays of light burnish the concrete warehouses surrounding her, licking across the asphalt like fire. In these last few moments of daylight, the city seems almost to shine.

_Magic._

Then a blast of wind rattles the power lines, shatterig the enchantment; she shudders, drawing her trenchcoat in tighter to ward off the chill. Fairytales are nice and all, but reality is this: lower-Manhattan shrouded in winter.

_Cocoa, bonfires, wool blankets, knee-high socks, beef stew..._

Thinking warm thoughts doesn’t stop the wind from teasing at her knit scarf. Doesn’t stave off the icy eddies razoring her stockinged legs with every step. Scowling, she swipes a wrist across her frozen, dripping nose.

 _Jesus._ Why can’t informants ever request to meet with her in a café? A diner? Somewhere with dim lights, steaming coffee and the low hum of a radiator? Somehow she only ever gets approached by the _Find me on the wharf at midnight_ types, or the creepy  _Meet me in the alley where that girl was brutally murdered_ types.

Christ. It’s a wonder she still enjoys this job.

Ellison would say it’s because she’s broken. He’s determined to force-feed her this theory about how all good journalist are born with a missing piece - a void that can only be filled by searching for truth and fact. _What makes a good reporter are the missing bits_ , he'll grouse, and then smack her with a rolled-up newspaper when she rolls her eyes.

And maybe she is broken, but the silver lining is that she lives in New York: population 160,000 people in crisis. Misery loves company.

...She's certainly miserable at the moment. Everything from her toes to nose is frozen as she walks the seedy streets of Chelsea. She could be home right now enjoying a glass of wine and the new episode of _Debutantes of Beverly Hills_ , but did she take advantage of Ellison's offer to leave the office early? Oh no - she'd told him she decided to work late, finish her upcoming article for this weekend. 

Great idea in theory: not great results.

Two hours later, she'd turned the key in the ignition only to discover that her car engine has frozen over. _Fan-fucking-tastic_. The office has already emptied for the day and her AAA membership is expired. She also really has to pee. With a sigh she'd hustles back inside, already mentally recalibrating her evening to be on hold with the nearest towing facility.

Then _twrrrillling -_ her desk phone rings.

Karen might not believe in the idea of Destiny calling, but the chances of an informant calling to request a meet ASAP? Insisting he has information that could save lives? Well, it's hard to argue the odds of that one. Thirty minutes and one L-train trip later, she’s forging through the cold. Following a trail of breadcrumbs and hoping they don't lead her to a wicked witch.

One point in this neighborhood’s favor: nothing about it screams  _magical candy cottage_.

Dilapidated buildings line the streets. The worn walk-ups are older than dirt, their entrances framed by splintered door-frames and rusty iron bars. Only a few units still boast intact windows; most are just empty sockets shrouded by dark, heavy curtains. 

Rather than the setting of  _Hansel and Gretel_ , the area looks more like something out of a Dickens novel - grey and bleak, a watercolor sucked dry. No trees. No grass. Not a hint of green. She’d be tempted to call it a ghost town except for the tell-tale itch down her spine, warning her of unseen eyes.

Watching. Waiting.

Unnerved, she slips a hand into her purse. Her shoulders slump in relief touch as soon as she touches hard plastic. The taser’s not a downgrade, really; it’s certainly more useful than a gun she no longer has the nerve to fire.

Recently she’d made a point to do some soul-searching - unrolled her old yoga mat, burned scented a candle into the quiet, probed at a few repressed memories... Such as Wesley’s expression as the bullets hit him. Surprise, confusion.

 _Bang_. One. _Bang_. Two. _Bang_. Three. _Bang_. Four.

Seven was supposedly God’s perfect number. She aimed for excellence.

And as much as she hadn’t wanted to revisit those terrible moments, it was necessary. Time wasn’t healing her - if anything, that Bonnie-and-Clyde stint with Frank a few weeks back had been like pouring salt and lemon juice on the wound. Now all of his kills were haunting her nightmares alongside Wesley, ghosts with accusing eyes and gruesome smiles.

She wasn't sleeping, she wasn't eating. Her temper was on a hair-trigger. Ellison had gone so far as to accuse her of using drugs. Karen had assured him that wasn't the case, mentioned being pretty shaken up still over the whole Frank Castle debacle, but... the interaction stuck with her. She was spiraling, and there was no more denying it.

The time had come to take drastic action.

So a week ago she bought a lockbox and sealed her gun away inside. It doesn't change the past or banish her demons, but it feels like a step in the right direction – symbolic, somehow, like surrendering her weapon has closed that chapter of her life. In the days that follow her purse feels lighter, and so does her spirit.

Still, she’s not stupid. Walking the streets without her .380 means she has to be be that much more careful when she goes out. The curve of the street ahead, for example - trigger-happy Karen would have confidently marched that narrow sidewalk despite not being able to see more than a few feet ahead. Vulnerable Karen notices how the sidewalk becomes bordered by a high cement wall, a feature that practically screams  _limited escape routes_.

She approaches skinny turn warily. Closer up, she can see that the wall's surface is covered in graffiti, designs twisting over the cement like vines. Neon bubbles, cartoonish faces, names she doesn’t recognize... It's practically a _Tour de France_ of New York's most prominent gangs. She can't help but note with pride that Daredevil has dismantled most of them.

Then she spots the fresh tags.

 _Oh, hell_. Karen stumbles back, hand to her mouth. 

The Los Lobos.

No one is sure when they first started appearing, or even where they come from. The Westies and Yardies had been nealy demolished, Yakuza fading into the woodwork with barely a peep - news headlines were claiming that gang warfare in Hell's Kitchen was at an all-time low. Then the Los Lobos had risen up like a dark phoenix, and everything changed.

They don't bother to hide their criminal activities. Law enforcement and pedestrians alike know that the gang is behind every drug-deal and gun-ring from here to the Upper East Side. And sure, there had been a social outcry in the beginning - the usual suspects on social media calling for harsher police measures, stricter penalties - but these days...

These days, Manhattan knows the score.

Enemies of Los Lobos tend to resurface in bloody pieces…if they resurface at all.

Karen quickens her pace, heart pounding. _Don’t mind me, just causally walking home to six kids and a deadbeat husband. Totally normal_.

Above her the sky has darkened to slate, and mangled streetlamps begin to cast sinister shadows to and fro. When she at last arrives the vacant Union Allied building without incident she lets out a relieved breath. 

“Creepy office, you’ve never looked so good.”

The air lingers in misty puffs around her as she ascends the steps. It isn't the same office she had once been employed at, of course; that one was located in The Kitchen, although it, too, had been abandoned after the scandal. This looks like a borough branch of the business - familiar enough to give her goosbumps, but vacated due to the rough neighborhood rather than from any objections to the company's ethics.

The glass front doors are opaque with a thin layer of frost. She smudges a spot clean with her elbow and peering inside, squinting. Dark, indistinct shapes, most likely old furnishings. No obvious threats waiting in the wings. On a _here-goes-nothing_ exhale, she tries the handle and finds it unlocked.

Great. So anyone could just waltz in?

Grimacing at that thought, she ducks inside. The last time she entered one of these buildings, she’d been about to ask Daniel Fisher to drinks. A sense of eerie familiarity sweeps over her, and her throat clogs with emotion.

_I’m sorry, Danny. You deserved so much better._

The temptation to take a minute and mourn his death is strong, but she forcibly shakes it off. This isn't a memorial - she’s here on a mission. 

Refocusing on her surroundings, Karen surveys the room. The lobby had always seemed rather small to her, particularly since Union Allied was supposed to be such a high-powered conglomerate. Privately, she had wondered if the obscene number of floors in the building had been designed to distract from the poor architecture.

She can just imagine Foggy waggling his eyebrows and whispering, " _Compensating_..." 

Karen wanders in further, her footfalls swallowed by somber gray carpet. The informant had requested to meet by the reception desk, and even though the desk is long gone, she spots its shell immediately: a round oak partition jutting from the wall like some ancient buttress. She heads in that direction, looking left and right. Twin elevators hug one wall, and past them is a metal door marked Stairs; in the space between them hangs a lonely fire-extinguisher, dusty and forgotten.

Once at the partition she leans a hip against it, waiting.

Not five minutes later the stair door creaks open. A thin shadow slips out; in the dimness she can just barely make out gaunt arms and a dark scruff of beard. She pushes off the partition, meeting the guy halfway.

“Javier? Karen Page, New York Bulletin.”

His clammy palm clasps hers. Her eyes are drawn to the chunky silver cross that hangs level with her nose on a thick, ringed chain. 

“ _Encantada_ ," he rasps. "Let's get this done quick - it's not safe around."

“Roger that.” She pulls out her phone and holds it up for his inspection. “Okay if I record?”

“ _Sí_... but audio only.”

“Great, just gimme a sec." A few taps later, and: "We’re good. Whenever you're ready.”

Javier rubs at his red-rimmed eyes. “Yeah. Okay. So my buddy and me, we're dealers down by the docks - blow, crack, molly, the works. It ain’t a good life, but...money don't grow on trees. The other day-" He pauses, heisting.

“Go on," she prods.

“The, uh, the other day my buddy comes to me. Tells me he’s been tapped for a different gig. More work, bigger pay; says I should join him. I ask him, what could possibly be bigger than drugs? And he tells me," he lowers his voice, "the _skin trade_.”

 “Jesus Christ."

“ _Jesús y Santa María,"_ he agrees.

She narrows her eyes. "I'm assume this conversation means told him  _no_ \- that you didn't lure me here under false pretenses."

" _Christo,_ no! It's justmy _amigo_ , he's in over his head. The men he works for are _loco_. I can't touch them; I need someone on the outside to bring the heat, force them to shut down the ring."

Karen nods, already mentally outlining the piece. “Got it. So who’s heading the operation?”

"You saw their sign on the wall. They're everywhere." Javier swallows hard. “The-”

A loud crash sounds from behind them. Karen whirls around just in time to see the front doors explode in a shower of glittering shards. For a frozen second the naked moon hangs in the doorframe. Then the darkness resolves into the shapes of several men holding machine guns.

“Get down!”

Dropping her phone, she launches at Javier. The force of her tackle sends them flying over the edge of the desk partition just as the air erupts with gunfire. 

_Shit, shit, shit._

Pulse hamming, she tries to orient herself. _Thugs with guns._ Javier underneath her, muttering Hail Mary’s. _The thugs are yelling in...Spanish_. Any second now she expects to feel the burn of a bullet. 

Will it hurt? Will she suffer?

_Breathe, Page. Evaluate and prioritize._

Um- shelter. That's a definite priority. They have it for the moment, but this partition won't stand forever. Already she hears splinters exploding into deadly wooden shrapnel under the pressure of bullets.

Okay, so priority number two is escape. The front entrance blocked by their attacker; only the back stairwell a viable option. And-  _shit._ To get to the stairs, they'll have to make a run for it, sprint for the opposite side of the room. They might end up with getting grazed, maybe even a bullet to the leg, but if it means making it out of here alive...

Just then, the gunfire trails off. Her muscles twitch in reaction to the quiet, survival instincts clamoring. She elbows Javier, catching his attention. “On my count, we have to run.”

“ _Dios mio,_ we'll be mowed down!”

“Not if we go now - they're reloading, which means we have seconds to make it those stairs before they put in new clips.”

He's shaking his head wildly. "No, no, no. We'll die."

“We'll die if we _stay_ _here_."

“Crazy _chica_."

"Maybe," she says grimly. "But I'm going, with or without you. One...two…”

There’s an odd pop, and Javier jerks.

 _"Fuck_.”

“Oh god. Javier?”

He's already crumpling, red blooming over his upper chest. The stain spreads rapidly over his cotton his wife-beater, soaking the thin fabric. “Shit,” he hisses, pressing his hands over the wound. "I'm hit."

Her breath hitches, and she scrambling to his side. Her pale hands join his in trying to stem the tide of blood, bubbling hot and sticky between their fingers. There’s so much of it. She chokes back a sob.

“Javier, stay with me. Don’t close your eyes.”

Chests jerking, he struggles for breath. “Have to...go,” he wheezes. “Leave...me."

“No, I'm not leaving you-"

"Go..." 

His lungs rattle once more, and then it's over. 

Body lax. Eyes sightless. He's gone and she knows it, but no matter how hard she tries to lift her hands from his chest her muscles won't cooperate; it's as if her brain is convinced that by keeping them there, she'll be able to reverse the flow of blood. Bring him back from the brink. 

And then suddenly she's looking down at a different body.

Another man - brown eyes, wavy brown hair. On the floor, so much blood. Coating her hands, her wrists. Dripping to her elbows.

 _Danny._ He’s not moving. Why isn’t he moving?

_Oh, god. I didn’t do this. I didn’t do this. I– someone, please, listen to me – I didn’t do this!_

The police are coming to restrain her. Harsh, angry voices batter her with garbled orders and she cringes away, whimpering. They think she killed Daniel because she has his blood on her hands. _Why does she have Danny's blood on her hands?_

When rough hands grab her, animal instinct rears up. _Run, fight_. She bucks wildly.

 _No!_   _I won't go to jail, I won't go to_ –

Like an overstretched rubberband, she snaps back.

Blood on her, yes - but not Daniel’s. Javier's. Bruising hands grip her forearms. Not NYPD officers - it's the thugs who just murdered Javier. One of is standing behind her and gripping her shoulders, yelling what sounds like nonsense.

_Wadideetellyou! Wadideetellyou!_

Eventually she is able to pick out individual words.  _What did he tell you?_

He's asking what Javier had told her. Was that why the thugs had killed him and not her? To ascertain how much she knew? Even if her vocal chords had been capable of speech, she wouldn’t have given them an answer. Silence might be her only prayer for survival.

That, and...

She makes a grab for her purse. Her fingers are just brushing the taser when the bag is ripped from her grasp, one of the thugs bringing down the butt of his pistol on her wrist. With a sharp cry, she cradles the injured hand. The thug who'd brutalized her reaches down, picking up the discarded weapon. There's a high buzzing and then-

Her blood is on fire. Crimson washing her eyelids, electricity swimming in her veins. Muscles rigid, she’s the hostage of an invisible current - aware but unable to even scream.

_Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop._

Abruptly the pain vanishes. She crumples to the floor, gasping. Her visions tunnels, narrowing to black spots and bright white light...and then darkness swallows her wholely.

* * *

 When awareness returns she's pressed to a flat surface. Grit is rubbing her cheek like sandpaper, and a rumbling vibration fills her bones, rattling her teeth. Dazed, she tries to push herself up only discover that her arms are wet noodles. 

 _Christ._  Her gut roils. They're transporting her somewhere; probably nowhere good.

Panic and adrenaline battle for dominance in her brain. Neither have an outlet in her weakened state. She's vulnerable while her body regains its mobility, at the mercy of time. Awkwardly she tries to jostle her head sideways, get some semblance of bearings.

She's sprawled on the floor of a vehicle - a maintenance, van by the size of it. They dumped her body between the first and second row of seats, where she's surrounded by an army of wadded-up takeout wrappers and spare ammunition packs. All she can smell is weed and unwashed male bodies, the stench so vile she gags.

Minutes later, the van rocks to a halt. She hears the sound of a door being rolled open and then a boot is nudging none-too-gently.

" _Vamos_."

Even motivated by fear, all she manages is a drunken sort of crawl. With a curse, the thug reaches down and drapes her arm around his neck, absorbing her weight until she partly stands, partly lists sideways. He yells to someone and Karen catches a glimpse of the driver abandoning his keys in the ignition before he reappears next to her. Together, the two men half-carry, half-drag her towards what appears to be an old garage. 

There's another thug guarding the garage entrance. He moves aside as they approach, allowing them passage.

She's blinks, momentarily blinded by the brightness of bare bulbs after so long in darkness. As her eyes adjust, she sees that a desk-and-chair combo is set up in the center of the room. Reclining on his throne, feet on the desk, is heavily tattooed Latino with the meanest eyes she's ever seen.

This must be the boss. _El Jefe._

He twirls a joint between his fingers, motioning them closer. The thugs drags Karen the remaining few feet and then release her so abruptly that her knees buckle. She drops to the floor in heap, palm landing in something wet. She tries not to overthink the sticky texture.

“Who’s this?”

“Caught her meeting that dockside  _chivito_ ,” one of the thugs growls. “Mateo's _amigo_.”

“Fuck. From now on, no more junkie recruits. They're not worth the trouble.” 

There's a shuffle of footsteps, and then  _El Jefe_  has skirted the table and is looming over her. Something hot and hungry gleams in his gaze. He seizes her chin, twisting it to and fro, and she stiffens.

 _I will not give him the satisfaction of shrinking away_.

“Blue eyes. Soft lips.” He yanks open her coat and squeezes a breast roughly. “Good tits. _Quiero resgar apagado toda su ropa, gringa._ ”

“Eat shit, _gordo_.”

He chuckles, releasing her. “ _Ayy_ , a wildcat. I like that. Antonio, _ven aquí!_ ”

Yet another thug appears from behind a side door. He strides in their direction, and-

She inhales sharply.

Meticulously-groomed goatee. Thick, dark sideburns. A black crewneck straining over a muscled chest, sleeves ending just above his rough, scarred hands. Even the reflective aviators can't disguise the face she knows so well. It's him. 

Frank Castle, in the flesh.

Her stomach lurches; for a split-second, she's that she's about to be sick. Mind spinning, she frantically flips through possible scenarios: Maybe she's mistaken. Maybe Frank has a gang doppelgänger. Maybe this is another hallucination, like her earlier one about Daniel.

But when he slides off his aviators and tosses them carelessly aside, they hit the ground near her knee with a clatter.

_Definitely real._

"You called, boss?”

No blink. Not even a twitch. It's as if he doesn't even recognize her.

“Antonio," _El Jefe_  purrs. "How long you been with us, _hermano_? One month - two?”

“Thereabout.”

“I respect you. Have I told you that recently? These young _pendajos,_ theyget squeamish, but you - you do what needs to be done, no questions asked.”

Antonio - Frank - shrugs. "I'm old-school like that."

“Your loyalty is duly noted. That's why...I've decided to reward you with a present." _El Jefe_  gestures to her, smirking. "The _gringa._ Fuck her, kill her; just make sure her body is easily found after. I want people to know what happens when you cross the Los Lobos.”

For the first time, Frank looks at her. _Really_ looks at her. And suddenly she sees that while his face appears stoic, his eyes - Jesus _,_  his eyes are hot and wild. They burn into her retinas like twin flames. 

 _Just hang on, ma'am_ , those eyes say. _You just hang on._

The trouble is, she doesn't know if she can. Shock and exhaustion have taken a heavy toll. She's deflating like a punctured balloon, brain finding a sort of numb fascination with the way blood has formed Rorschach blots on her navy skirt.

Sometimes the mind breaks before the body.

As if sensing time running out, Frank clears his throat. "Thing is, she looks kinda of beat-up. I prefer my presents...unopened."

"We'll open her up for you," howls one of the thugs. Beside him, the other man nods emphatic agreement.

El Jefe leans back in his chair. “Shit happens,  _hermano._  And it sounds like if you don't want her, others will gladly take your place."

The air is tight with intangible tension. That sixth sense Karen has for danger tingles- not that she often heeds it - tingles like the sizzle before a lightning strike.

“Fucking shit,” Frank mutters.

Tossing his spent joint aside, El Jefe raises an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“I said, _you fucking piece of shit_.” Smoothly, Frank unholsters a gun from the small of his back and levels it at El Jefe. "Say _adios_ , asshole."

El Jefe's head explodes in a spray of gore.

With a shocked cry Karen scrambles back. Her ears are ringing from the loud bang, and if from a distance she hears a roar of _Take cover._ Disorientated, vaguely aware that her muscles are once again cooperating, she dives under the protection of El Jefe's desk just as the air explodes with the gunfire.

_Jesus Christ. Not again._

She covers her ears. Tries to block out the _rat-a-tat-tat_ of machine guns and yelled profanity, the steady boom of Frank’s pistol. A bullet hisses past her and misses her wrist by spare inches; she scrambles backward and attempts to retract into a smaller ball.

Her spine is pressed tight against El Jefe's limp feet. An image of his pulpy skull taunts her, and she squeezes her eyes shut. Presses a wrist to her mouth. _No._  That won’t be her fate, not today - won't be not Frank's either, if she has any say. His surprise attack has provided a miracle, another chance at escape, and she can't -  _won't -_  squander that opportunity. 

Adrenaline sweeping through her, she scoots out from behind El Jefe's legs. Uses the mass of his slumped body for temporary protection while she scans the room. _There._ Her gaze lands on the transport van only a yard or so away. It's perfect. Pulse kicking, she swiftly puts her plan into action.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The thugs are temporarily occupied with Frank. She uses their distraction to sprint for the van, legs pumping. _Inhale, exhale._

Feet-first, she hits the bumper with a slide that would make Babe Ruth proud, knees and elbows scraping concrete as she rolls under the vehicle. Then she's out the other side, leaping to her feet. A hard yank opens the passenger side door. She dives inside, slamming the door and locking it with a crow of victory.

_Just in time._

A spray of gunfire peppers the van, bullets making contact and then ricocheting with hollow pings. _Well._ Apparently the Los Lobos invested in bulletproof vehicles - that's going to be worth investigating if - when - she makes it out of here alive.

A glance in the driver's side mirror reveals Frank at the center of the melee, using a fallen gang member as a human shield against the remaining two. A red stain is swallowing the fabric of his right bicep, and she can make out more red trickling from his temple. There's no way to signal her intentions - she can only pray he'll get the hell out of the way when he sees her coming.

The keys are right in the ignition right where she remembers the driver leaving them; with a twist of her wrist, the van roars to life. She shifts the clutch, stretching her foot toward the gas. _Maximum horsepower, baby._  Gears screech in outrage as she accelerates.

"Pedal to the metal, _pendajos!_ "

The first thug tries to run, but there's no outrunning fate - not when fate is a two-ton bulletproof van heading straight for you. The hood slams into his chest with a sickening _thump_ and the force sends him flying backward. She bites her lip hard, holding in a scream. _Pretend it's a videogame, Page. No real bodies._

She jerks the wheel in reverse, rubber squealing in protest.

The remaining thug is spitting profanity, audible even through the thick bulletproof glass. He's vacillating between pointing his gun at her and at Frank as she navigates him into her sights, and she huffs in disbelief. Has he no sense of self-preservation?

“Move,” she hollers. In retaliation, he fires at her front tires. The shot misses but she gets the message– _fuck you_.

Suicidal idiot. Gritting her teeth, she revs the engine. “Fine. But this is gonna hurt me a lot more than it hurts you.”

With a snarl, she pushes down the gas and sends the van hurtling forward.

 _Get out of the way, get out of the way. Goddammit,_ move _!_

Just as she’s convinced he's going to become an unattractive smear on the pavement, the thug leaps aside. She brings the van to a screeching halt where his body had been only seconds before. Karen slumps back, pulse pounding wildly.

“Jesus Christ.”

She watches as he beats a rapid retreat from the garage, scraped, pissed, but alive. One less bit of red in her ledger. The instant his backs vanishes from sight, she’s pressing the unlock button and clambering out.

Frank rounds the bumper just as she does, dripping sweat and blood. Blessedly alive.

"You're okay," she breathes. Would he rebuff a hug if she went for it?

Probably.

“Ma’am,” he nods. Propping his good shoulder against the taillight, he surveys the area with a low whistle. “Damn - you sure know how to clear a field.”

"You should see me in dodgeball.”

“Balls of steel, I bet.”

Off-balance, she clears her throat. "That's. That’s very nice of you to say.”

"Nice?" Snorting, he holsters his pistol. “Don't spread that shit around - it'll ruin my good reputation ."

With that practically embossed invitation... “What exactly _is_ your reputation here, Frank? What were you doing with the Los Lobos?”

Pushing off the taillight, he thumbs her toward the front of the van. “Get in; I'll tell you on the way.”

"The...way?"

"Home. Unless you wanna hitch a ride in those worn duds."

Karen glances down, suddenly aware of how her stained silk blouse and torn skirt cling to her like a second skin. _Jesus_ , she's a mess. Now that the adrenaline is fading, she discovers that her whole body aches - tomorrow her bruises will have bruises. With a sheepish nod she says, "I'll take the ride."

They drive in silence for a while except for her occasional directions. After a while, she risks a sideways glance.

“So, uh... Thanks for back there. Saving me.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“No, really - I was in in a bad way. I don’t think I'd have been walking out of there on my own.”

“Ma’am...”

“It's just," she pushes on gamely, "I can't stop remembering that day in the woods, how I said such awful things. And next thing I know you're running with a gang. I can't help but wonder if it might be my–”

“ _Goddammit,_  Karen, don't you dare say it's your fault.” 

His tone sharp, uncharacteristically so. She casts a startled glance in his direction; jaw tense, he's white-knuckling steering wheel as he stares out the windshield with laser focus. He must sense her gaze, though, because he makes a show of deliberately unclenching his hands.

"It wasn't your fault, ma'm," he says. Softer. "Don't you ever try to take on my sins like that."

"Okay."

"Okay." He exhales. Rolls his shoulders a little, loosening the built up tension. "Anyway. After Schoonover... I had nothing. No path, no peace. But a soldier's gotta have a mission or he ends up in a bad way, so I headed back to The Kitchen. Heard tell of gang taking girls off the streets, selling 'em."

"The Los Lobos," she says.

"Right. I was just planning on toasting their asses, but the closer I got the more it looked like they were just working a supply-and-demand job; a higher-up demanded, they supplied."

"A symptom, not the problem."

“Exactly. So I stuck around, even infiltrated their ranks - tired to catch wind of who they were taking orders from. Thought that maybe I could cut the head off the snake."

"And?"

"Nothing. Then I saw you lying there, bloody." His teeth grind. " _Christ._ You have no idea; I wanted to take 'em out one by one."

He falls silent, index finger tap-tap-tapping the steering wheel. Delicate as butterfly wings, her fingers settle over the agitated digit.

"But you didn't."

"I couldn't. Not while you were in the line of fire- it was too risky. I thought if I played their game, maybe bought some time-"

"We're alive," she says quietly. "That's what matters."

He pulls the van to a stop next to her building. They sit together in contemplative silence for a moment, and then Karen unbuckles her seatbelt.

Pauses.

Ducks her chin behind a fall of hair. “I, uh. Don’t suppose you’d come up for a beer?”

“Um. Probably shouldn't."

“Right," she backtracks hastily. "Probably not." 

“But…" he swallows. "I would. If things were- different."

Something high in her chest clenches. _If things were different._

"I'd have liked that. Things being...different."

A rough, scarred hand reaches out. His thumb, feathering the mole at the corner of her mouth.

"You stay safe now, Karen Page.”

“You to, Frank Castle.”

Only when her apartment lights flicker on does the black van pull away from the curb.


End file.
